


Moz and Johnny's Book of Dares

by flowercrownclem



Category: Dash and Lily's Book of Dares - Fandom, The Smiths
Genre: Christmas, Dash and Lily's Book of Dares AU, Fluff, M/M, Marrissey, no idea where this is going but it'll probably be cute, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownclem/pseuds/flowercrownclem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 11:55 on Christmas Eve and I've barely written any of this so it's a little late but in case anyone is in desperate need for a bit of Marrissey Christmas, here you go.<br/>Based on (one of my favorite books) Dash and Lily's Book of Dares.<br/>Morrissey is alone on Christmas so he leaves a notebook full of instructions in a favorite record shop in hopes of meeting someone interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ask Me

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably follow the book for the most part but I don't really know what will happen because I have done very little planning for this.

Prologue

“C’mon, Stevo, just stick it in there,” Linder smirked crudely. I rolled my eyes, fixing her with a pointed glare.

“This was a stupid idea,” I told her, shaking my head. “No one would even pick it up.”

“You would,” she pointed out, grabbing the notebook from my hands. I shrugged, looking around the slightly dingy record store, made gloomy by the cloud-filled sky outside. Beside me Linder sighed and continued her attempts at encouragement, “Do you really want to be alone at Christmas?”

“I’m alone at every Christmas,” I reminded her, “and the rest of the year, if you’ve forgotten.”

“Yeah, but really alone. Christ, even your mum’s not gonna be there for this one and you’re not at all put out?”

I frowned, “I told you I don’t mind. Besides, she hasn’t seen her sisters in ages. It’ll be good for her to have a visit.”

“And it’ll be good for you to actually have some semblance of human connection for once in your fucking life,” she laughed, holding up the notebook.

“No one’s even gonna pick it up,” I argued for what felt like the twelfth time, snatching the book back.

“So what are you afraid of?” she asked, flicking a stack of records open to an invitingly open slot between two of my favorite albums. She made a wide sweeping gesture as though modeling for a commercial on daytime telly.

I frowned deeply, biting my lip and tightening my hold on the red leather notebook in my hands. I looked up to see that she’d already swept off to another aisle, leaving me alone to my decision. Before I could think better of it, I tucked the book between the records, leaning the rest back in place so that nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I gave the stack one last look before running off after Linder.

Chapter 1

“Johnny, hurry up!” Andy whined, practically stomping his foot. “We’ve been in here ages! C’mon, I’ve got other places to go.”

“Just a minute,” I grinned, “I’ve got to make sure I’ve seen everything.”

“You come in here nearly every day,” Andy pointed out in a huff. “Unless they’re hiding things I’m sure you’ve seen everything they’ve got.”

“You never know,” I shrugged, moving further back towards the 60’s stuff.

“You’re never leaving, are you?” Andy groaned.

“Nope,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“I’ll meet up with you later,” he decided finally. “I’ve got to pick up some new strings from that place on the corner.”

“Have fun,” I sang, already turning back to the records. I ran the tips of my fingers over the vast expanse of pop music, smiling to myself. Absentmindedly flicking records towards myself, I paused when I noticed a small gap between the sleeves. I separated the vinyl, peering between and finding a book.

I pulled out the red moleskine notebook and turned it over, looking for some sort of markings but found none. Frowning, I opened it to the front page and found only a short note.

_ Fill in the blanks if you wish. If not, please return this book to its lovely home and go on your way. _

I looked around, wondering who had left the book, but I seemed to be the only person in the shop. I turned back to the page, looking at 14 blank dashes drawn below the chicken skratch words. I turned the page curiously.

_ Let us start with an easy one, shall we? Roxy Music’s  _ _ eponymous ‘Roxy Music,’ track 3. You’ll want to be heading to the glam rock section under the Bowie poster. _

_ Please leave the next page unturned until you’ve filled in the blanks, by the way. _

I tucked the book under my arm, weaving through the aisles to the described section, although I didn’t need the instruction. I found the record in seconds, turning it over to find the indicated song.

_ If There Is Something _

I pulled an old pencil from my pocket, filling in the first four lines and adding the Roxy Music record to the small stack of vinyl already under my arm.

_ Well done, although I shouldn’t really be congratulating you. Following specific directions isn’t exactly a feat to be celebrated. Next one’s a little harder. _

_ Rodriguez is your man, first three words only. _

I frowned, glaring around the shop. What was that supposed to mean? I began wandering, checking every section of R’s that I could see, growing frustrated when each one came up blank. Finally, I came to the section of singles at the front, silently praying as I reached towards the placard labeled ‘R’ and found only one 45 sitting innocently. I grinned, holding it up and reading the track name.

_ You’d Like To Admit It _

I quickly filled in the next three blanks and turned the page.

_ Just the first word for this one; Take a tip from Otis Redding. _

I didn’t even have to move over to the R&B section, making a guess that if I did I’d find only one single:  _ Try A Little Tenderness _ . I continued on to the next page.

_ Just one more and you’re home free. _

_ Pete Shelley, leader of the most kickass band in the country and lyricist extraordinaire- go find XL1, track 7. _

I raced to the section of punk and new wave records across the far wall, searching through the S section and finding the record. I turned it over eagerly, skimming down and holding my breath as I copied the words into the last available spaces.

_ if there is something you’d like to try _

_ ask me I won’t say no _

I pursed my lips, not sure what the owner of the notebook even meant by the words. Was it simply an invitation? I flipped the next page, looking for meaning.

_ So, what would you like to ask? Write whatever you wish to, if you wish to do so, and leave this notebook at the front, along with your name and address so that I might answer. I hope to be hearing from you soon. _

_ -M _

I shook my head, smiling wryly and scribbling out a question and my own instructions, rather than my name or address. When I paid for my records, including every one that the notebook owner had used, I slipped the notebook across that counter, nodded and left.

I’d have to tell Andy I couldn’t meet him for lunch- I didn’t know how much time I had to put my plan into action.


	2. Connoisseur

“What does this mean?” I asked, my face twisted. I had been reunited with the freshly received notebook for less than five minutes and I just wanted to give it back.

“It means you have to go,” Linder supplied unhelpfully, taking the book and smirking. She had been very amused by the complete and utter lack of the name and address which I had politely requested. Instead, a boyish penciled scrawl had left me a question and a new set of instructions. “They’re just giving you a taste of your own medicine, making you work to find out anything.”

“But it isn’t even my own medicine!” I cried, “It was your stupid idea, you should have to do it.”

“Sorry, Stevo, I’ve got places to be and people to meet. You’ve just got one place to be and one person to find.” She handed the book back to me, ruffling my hair and bidding me farewell. I frowned down at the open page, rereading what the boy (presumably) had written.  
_Are you a musician, or just a connoisseur of the arts?_

_ Go to the diner with the giant butterfly on the sign and order a milkshake and a surprise. _

I sighed, resolved to follow Linder’s advice and just go to the diner. I knew which one he meant by the description of the sign, and knew that I could walk there in minutes. I bundled up in my coat, tucking the moleskin and a pen into a pocket.

By the time I was sat in a booth I had begun to silently dread following the given instructions. How was I to order “a surprise”?

While I waited to be served, I pulled out the notebook and started to write.

_ I am not a musician. I tried playing my cousin’s guitar once or twice but it was always immediately taken away by some blessed soul who either took pidy on me or simply wanted to save the human race from sudden deafness. I took piano lessons as a child to only slightly better results, comparatively. _

_ I like that word; connoisseur. Props to you for proper spelling and everything- it’s not a word which is used enough. However, I don’t know if I really am one. Is one made expert simply by love of music? All I know is that where I am dark, music is light; where I am hole it is whole. I don’t know if this makes sense but it’s all I can offer at the moment. _

_ What about you, are you connoisseur or fan? _

_ To change the topic slightly, I am currently sat in your diner, dreading the moment the waitress asks for my order. How exactly am I meant to order a surprise? You had better have some kind of plan or I’ll look ridiculous. I suppose if you’re reading this at some point in the future it must have worked, or you wouldn’t have gotten it back. It’s strange to write letters or notes and know that you’re writing to the future of whoever you’re writing to. _

I was brought back from my rambling writings by the forebode waitress.

“Could I have a milkshake and a, um,” I cringed, muttering out, “and a surprise?”

“What?” she asked, frowning.

“I, um, I don’t know,” I told her apologetically. “I was supposed to-”

“Simon?” the girl called to a boy behind the counter. “This kid’s asking for a surprise.”

I turned my head down, my ears turning red.

“Oh!” the boy, Simon, exclaimed. “Give me just a second!”

I fiddled nervously with my hands, just waiting. The Waitress in front of me had scuffled off and disappeared into the back and once again I was alone.

“Here you go, mate,” Simon grinned, sliding a chocolate milkshake across the table to me, along with a crumpled receipt from the music store by the record shop. I raised one eyebrow when he didn’t retreat, instead looming expectantly over me. He nodded to the paper in front of me and I looked down to see more of the now familiar writing.

_ Be a dear and give Simon the notebook for me. If you write down your name and address I might even give it back! What an idea? _

“Give me just a second,” I told Simon, opening up the notebook again and curling myself around it. I hastily scrawled out an addition to what I’d written earlier, slipping an old bookmark between the pages, and handed over the book.

“The milkshake is on the house, by the way,” Simon told me, smiling easily. “Johnny already paid for it when he came by earlier.”

“Johnny?” I asked, eagerly.

“Shit, was I not supposed to use names?” he asked, wincing. “He made it sound like some super secret hand off of important information. Like you guys were spies or summat.”

“He did?” I grinned.

“Yeah,” Simon nodded. “You’re not though, right?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said, mock-serious. “It’s a secret.”

His eyes widened slightly and he nodded solemnly, tapping the book against his chest and returning to the back of the diner.


	3. Secrets Secrets Are No Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to not be finished with this so late after Christmas but it's finished now so I'll just post the rest of the chapters at once so there's no more wait.

“What the fuck is in that book?” Andy asked me with a frown, his guitar resting in his lap. He had come over to “jam” but I’d been distracted the entire time, trying to construct an adequate response in the notebook.

“Hmm?” I feigned innocence, tucking it slightly under my knee.

“You haven’t been paying attention to any of the stuff I’ve tried to show you. So what is it? Songs? If you’ve suddenly started writing songs you legally have to show me or I’m kicking you out of the band.”

“We’re hardly a band,” I told him, becoming very invested in re-tuning my own guitar.

“We’re the best band,” he scoffed. “Now stop changing the subject; What’s in here?”

Before I could make some sort of excuse he had reached over and snached up the moleskin, holding it out of my reach.

“No!” I screeched, throwing my guitar aside and leaping nearly on top of him to grab at it.

“Woah there,” he laughed, stretching his arm further behind him so that I couldn’t get to it. In what was admittedly a moment of weakness, I grabbed the fleshy bit of his upper arm, pulled it closer to myself and bit down hard, making him cry out in surprise and pain.

“Johnny what the fuck?!” he yelled, dropping the book and craning his neck, pulling aside his shirt to inspect the light bite marks left on his arm. While he was distracted I fell to the floor, scooping up the notebook with a satisfied smile.

“‘S what you get,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“Fucking vampire,” he muttered, rubbing his arm. I grinned back cheekily, baring my teeth. “So what’s in this fucking book that’s got you so weird?”

“Nothing,” I shrugged.

“Is it your secret diary or something? We’re best friends- you’re not allowed to have secrets. It’s illegal,” he told me seriously.

“It’s not even my notebook,” I groaned, “and no, it’s not a diary.”

“Then what is it?” he demanded. I sighed, going into a whole explanation of how I’d found it in the record store and had been writing back and forth to someone I didn’t even know. I finished by telling him that the boy had ignored my request of a name and address, although I hadn’t had much hope of receiving either. 

“Oh, you’re fucked,” Andy grinned after a moment of silence.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in too deep,” he declared with mock sadness. “It’s too late already.”

“What? No. What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.

“You’ve spent way too long thinking about this. You just spent fifteen minutes waxing poetic about his vocabulary. His bloody  _ vocabulary _ , Johnny.” Andy shook his head, “You’re in love.”

“I don’t even know him!” I said, “He just seems cool.”

“You’ve got your crush face on.”

“What the hell is a ‘crush face’?” I laughed.

“You know,” he said, “you get all soft and dreamy-eyed. Like you’re planning a wedding in your head or some shit.”

“I’m not- I... shut up,” I whined. “I’d better get going soon, I’ve got to go to the library.”

“You’re going to the library?” Andy scoffed. “Nerd.”

“‘S not for me,” I told him defensively. “Gotta drop off the notebook. He left a bookmark from that one across town and said to slip it in the drop-off box. He must work there or something.”

“Alright,” he grinned. “Have fun- and I’d better be the best man at your wedding!”

I rolled my eyes, shoving him off as I left the flat.

 

“Hello, love,” the elderly librarian greeted me when I landed in front of her desk.

“Hi,” I smiled easily, pausing to read her nametag and remind myself of her name, “Effie.”

“What can I help you with today?” she asked brightly.

“I’m just returning at the moment- as far as I know.” I bought the notebook into view, gauging her reaction for a sign of recognition.

“Ooh, you’re here for that!” she exclaimed, eyes crinkling. She held out her arms eagerly.

I handed over the book, looking down at it fondly.

“Who’s is it?” I asked, trying to keep any desperation out of my voice.

“Mine,” she told me in a light tone.

“No it’s not,” I scoffed.

“How do you know?” she laughed.

“I just know,” I shrugged.

“Well, you’ve handed it over so it is in fact mine until he drops by to pick it up.”

“‘He’?” I asked hopefully. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“Said too much already, love,” she sighed.

“You haven’t said anything!” I protested. She just tutted, setting the book under the counter. “What if I just hid behind the shelves, huh? Just waited until he came in and caught him at it? You couldn’t do anything about it then!”

“I was given instruction not to call him in until you’d left,” she laughed.

I deflated, huffing out a defeated breath.

“How am I supposed to find him, then?” I asked.

“It’ll happen,” she assured me. “Just wait. He’s shy.”


	4. Do You Believe?

_ For some reason or another I understand you completely. I’m not sure it that means you really do make sense or if it just means we’re destined to be roommates in a mental institution, but either way you’re not alone. Music does something strange to the mind, like it fills in the gaps and freshens the air. It’s like punctuation for your brain how it takes all these jumbled words and thoughts and connects them and makes sense of them and suddenly they’re ideas and feelings and statements. _

_ I myself have played the guitar since I was a kid. Glued bottle caps on a little play guitar when I was barely old enough to hold it so that it’d look like Marc Bolan's with the fancy knobs and whatnot. I refuse to believe that you could possibly be impossible to teach- I’ll teach you myself if it’s the last thing I do. I don’t care if you’re a tone-deaf with only three fingers, I’ll make you practice scales until you utterly despise me. Or, if guitar really and truly isn’t what you want, we’ll find another instrument for me to torture you with. Everyone should have some instrument to play. It’s simply a part of life that can not be passed up. _

_ Christmas is tomorrow and I have no idea what I’m going to do, did you know that? Of course you didn’t, seeing as we’ve exchanged only a handful of words, but I like to pretend I know you a bit better than that. Anyway, I’m currently playing orphan since my parents live nearly an hour’s drive away and I don’t have the funds for even a fairly short trip (one of the perks of moving out when you’re barely a legal adult and living off of shitty gigs and minimum wage). Of course, I would be with my best mate but he’s decided to leave me alone last minute to go chase girls or buy hair dye or whatever it is that he does when I’m not around. I suppose I’ll just be at home watching old films and roasting chestnuts, or whatever it is you do on Christmas. Do you feel sorry for me?  _ _ I _ _ feel sorry for me, even if it’s my own fault for not saving up enough money for a train ride, but that doesn’t mean I won’t mope as much as I’m able to, M. _

_ Sorry for ranting a bit there, but I don’t write very often so when I do I tend to make the most of it. You seem like the kind of person who writes all the time- is that true? Sometimes all you need is someplace to write and suddenly you’ve got a thousand-page memoir coming out. _

_ So, how are you spending this Christmas, M? Do you even celebrate Christmas? I know some people celebrate other things, and I wouldn’t put it past you to be one of those “intellectuals” who boycotts Christmas on the principle of capitalist-driven holidays or whatever. I, for one, believe in the sanctity of Christmas. Even if nowadays it is all a marketing ploy, at least it’s one that makes people happy. I hope you’re happy this Christmas. _

_ -JM _

_ P.S. What do you look like and how old are you and also Merry Christmas (whether or not you celebrate it) _

Below that was a short set of instructions for the next drop-off.

I reread the entire passage twice before I set down the notebook.

This was the most that either of us had written and I couldn’t help but be endeared by his writing. When I wrote I usually couldn’t help but think through each word before it hit the paper, but Johnny wrote as if it were a direct extension of his thoughts, an unfiltered view into his mind.

I liked his dedication to music and that he wanted to share it with me. Maybe I wouldn’t mind music lessons if he was the one teaching me.

I liked that he understood me.

“What was he like, Eff?” I looked up pleadingly at the older woman. As soon as she’d handed me the notebook I’d tucked myself on the ground behind the counter and curled around the book.

“Nice lad,” she mused. “Bit short but had a bite to him. Plucky.”

“What’d he look like?” I asked shyly.

“I just told you: short.”

“No, Effie,” I groaned, “I mean what’d he  _ look _ like?”

“‘M not telling you everything,” she laughed. “If you want to know you’ve got to see for yourself.”

“He’s alone for Christmas,” I told her suddenly, not quite sure why I had to say it.

“Just like you.” Her eyes softened.

“Only,” I paused, pursing my lips, “he believes in Christmas.”

“Oh?” she asked. “Not a cynical old man like yourself, hating all that ‘nonsense’?”

“I don’t hate it,” I argued, “I just don’t understand. I- Well, I don’t know. I just...”

“Why don’t you tell  _ him _ that, love?” She smiled, ducking into the back room.

I took a deep breath, uncapping my pen and sticking the tip of my tongue out of the the side of my mouth in concentration.

_ I believe I am in quite the same boat as you are, in more than music obsession. _

_My mum is off visiting family and for some reason or another I’m bothered by it. I don’t put particular stake in Christmas (which I_ _do_ _celebrate, by the way) and I assumed that being alone would be just like any other time, when I find solace in solitude. For some reason, though, I feel more lonely than alone. My best friend, Linder, said it’s because deep down I’m just as sappy and sentimental as anyone and that it only comes out when I’m alone but I beg to differ. I just haven’t thought up a decent argument, yet._

_ I suppose I’ll be spending my day much the same as you described, watching films and finding some sort of holiday-appropriate activity. According to your instructions I’ll be making at least one trip out of the house, which might be nice. I’d like to walk the streets on a major holiday and see if they’re as empty as you’d think. I like taking walks through town when there’s noone else around. It’s quieter than it is in my head. _

_ To answer your questions, Johnny, I am a nineteen year old male who resides in his mother’s home and lives inside books. I’m not tall but not as short as you apparently are. I’ve got dark hair and blue eyes and that’s all the description I’m going to give you. I can’t have you recognising me on the street, can I? _

_ By the way I  _ _ do _ _ feel sorry for you, not only because I know how you feel but because I don’t. You believe in Christmas and I believe in very little. As strange as I feel spending the holidays alone I can only imagine how it feels for someone who doesn’t want to. Will you leave out a tray of milk and biscuits for Santa Claus, I wonder? You seem the type to do that, hold on to traditions like that. Oh and my dissatisfaction with Christmas is not, for your information, some political statement. I’m not even sure what it is, just that it doesn’t feel the same as it did when I was a small child and that I wish it did. I know it never will and I guess it makes me seem somewhat silly to expect it to, but I miss the magic. I miss the excitement and wonder of it all. _

_ Is there still magic for you? _

_ -M _


	5. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually these switch perspective every chapter but this one is still in Moz's perspective

_ There’s a Christmas morning church service at 8 o'clock but if you get in at 9:30 it’ll be empty. _

_ It’s time to confess your sins, my dear. _

I looked up from the scrawled instructions to the small church in front of me. I stepped up the small set of stairs, taking in the ornate carving that scaled the walls around the front entrance. When I reached the doors they opened with only a light push on my part. Once I stepped through them it was like plunging underwater.

I was surrounded by silence and the strange weight that air seems to hold in churches. Maybe it’s the stuffy air or the weight of confessed sins, or perhaps it’s the eyes of God heavy on your back. My footsteps echoed through the room no matter how lightly I stepped. It felt like a dream, moving through the nearly vacant church.

I walked down one set of pews to an unassuming confessional booth, clutching the notebook tightly. I tentatively pulled back the curtain that hid the visitor’s side, peeking in my head to look for any further instruction.

_ Sit _ , was written on a small note, taped right above the bench.

I sat.

As soon as I had let the curtain fall once more the screen separating the two booths slid open just far enough for a hand to reach through expectantly. I chewed my lip, handing over the book. Almost as soon as it was pulled back through the gap another note was being passed through. I took it, confused.

“Hello?” I asked. There came no reply but the screen was shut again before I could try and peek through. I huffed out an annoyed breath and opened the folded note.

_ Wait. _

I waited.

I leaned back on the bench, folding my arms across my chest and waited. I listened to the sound of pages turning followed by silence and eventually the light scratch of a pen on paper.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously. “You’re not supposed to read it, you know, if that’s what you’re doing. No one else is supposed to- at least I don’t think. Has he been letting people read the notebook? I mean, we never really  _ said _ , but I figured it was implied.”

I was cut off by the sound of the screen opening again, the edge of the notebook appearing.

“Oh so I get it back now?” I asked, taking it from their grasp. “Does he not want it afterall?”

I frowned, flipping the pages until I saw a new entry.

_ I agree with Linder. I think deep down you want to slave away baking fresh biscuits for Santa Claus and crying at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life and rescuing orphaned bunnies. I think you’d like to believe just as much as I do- and you could, too, if you let yourself. _

_ I never let anyone else read this, by the way. _

_ -JM _

I stared open-mouthed at the notebook in my lap, unable to catch my breath. I tried to see through the screen but all I could make out was a vague figure.

“Y-your’e...” I stuttered, trying to make sense of it. Until that moment I’d looked at him with a much more detached air, more like a journal entry than a pen pal. He didn’t seem real until then.

The screen opened barely an inch and the tip of a pen was slid through.

“Write it,” he instructed and I could hear the grin in his voice.

“Okay,” I whispered, taking the pen and thinking for a moment before uncapping it.

_ That’s good I guess. _

_ I’m having trouble believing that it’s really you sitting less than a meter away from me. I’m having trouble believing that there is a you at all, really. You don’t seem real to be completely honest. You seem more like an extension of my unconscious who’s just here as proof that I really am mad. _

_ And yet I can hear you breathing as I write this and I can see your silhouette if I just look up and you do seem a bit short which is somehow reassuring because that means that Effie really did see you and I’m not the only one. _

I tapped lightly on the frame of wood that separated us and the screen slid open again, revealing a slim, pale hand which took the notebook and pen when I offered them.

I waited, playing with my fingers and trying not to think too much about anything.

I heard the scratch of his pen and in no time at all the notebook was back in my hands.

_ Do you trust me? _

I took a deep breath.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

I heard movement in the next compartment and suddenly light was filtering in through the screen. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the light, and I could see that the booth was empty.

He’d left.


	6. It's A Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in Johnny's perspective for the last chapter

“Wait!” I heard from within the confessional booth. I was stood leaning casually against the outer wall, already waiting. I could hear a brief and frantic struggle as the boy tore open the curtain, nearly falling on the ground as he disentangled himself from it. I lept forward and caught him around the waist before he could hit the floor.

“‘m not going anywhere,” I told him as our eyes met.

“I- I’m, um, you’re...” He looked up at me with wide eyes, his expression torn.

“You’re not nearly as eloquent in person,” I grinned, setting him back properly on his feet.

“I’ve got more time to think in the, uh, the book.” He chewed nervously on his lip, clutching the notebook tightly to his chest. “I wasn’t expecting t-to, uh, meet you.”

“Well, you haven’t yet,” I pointed out. “Not properly.”

He frowned, confused.

“Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Johnny Marr. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He extracted one hand from his chest, meeting mine with a sweaty, slightly shaky grip.

“Hello,” he replied, smiling softly, “I’m Steven Morrissey.”

“Your eyes  _ are _ blue,” I told him with a tone of satisfaction.

“And you’re short,” he snorted. “Are we stating facts?”

“They’re nice,” I shrugged.

“What are? Facts?”

“No,” I giggled. “Your eyes.”

“Oh, we’re still on that?” Although he brushed off my comment I could see the blush forming on his face.

“Yes,” I said, “but there is something of more importance to be discussed.”

“What?” he asked cautiously, frowning.

“It has come to my attention that neither of us has anyone to spend the day with and as you know I hold a few strong beliefs about Christmas, all of which completely reject that notion.”

“And how will we right these heinous wrongs?” he asked, playing along.

“I propose that we spend the day together,” I declared with an air of officiality. “We’ll roast chestnuts and watch old films and I won’t even make fun of you when your sappy self starts crying before any of them have finished. I’ll even let you wipe your nose on my sleeve.”

“I think I’d prefer a handkerchief,” he said, scrunching his nose in distaste.

“You drive a hard bargain but I think I can accommodate,” I grinned. “So, what do you say?”

“Can we watch Christmas in Connecticut?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a deal,” he smiled, taking my hand once again, shaking it firmly. When he made to pull away I tightened my grip, pulling him beside me as we made our way out of the church and onto the snow-dusted streets.


End file.
